• Stacey refuses to accept the notion that her sh!t doesn’t stink, correctly assuming that, since every contestant who has ever accepted any blame whatsoever on this show has been summarily dismissed for not standing up for themselves. She contends that she’d love to be a project manager.

• Trump tells Stacey that she has to convince others that she should be the PM, despite every other PM in history having been assigned randomly, because it was their turn, or because they were imposed on a team by Trump.

• Stacey is, of course, summarily dismissed, since the entire portion of the Trump organization that is on display here (including, it pains me to say, my beloved Carolyn, who appears to be increasingly aware that she is one seriously hot television mama) is completely off its meds.

And we roll credits, with that song that everyone keeps starting new threads to ask about, and various swirling imagery, and pictures of this season’s crop of intolerable wankers looking, by turns, happy, committed, determined, and whorish (and please, I’m not so pedestrian as to single out one gender when I assign that quality; Wes, for example, may as well be giving five-dollar hummers for rocks in Hunt’s Point, and would probably look better in a wig, makeup, short skirt, and fvck-me heels than many of the people who actually do so).

So back in the suite, the boardroom survivors debate the possibilities of who got shi!tcanned. The consensus appears to be that it’s Andy, which is abundantly reasonable since he has no business being here, being an immature twit with no reasonable facsimile of leadership ability who still bears scars in his crack from the number of atomic wedgies that he received at Harvard, and let me tell you, at Harvard they’re apparently pretty smart, so when they give you an atomic wedgie, you feel lasting pain.

ADVERTISEMENT

There’s Maria, in her stupid boardroom suit with the ridiculous giant flower-thingie that should scream to anyone with a hair of sense, “Fire me, then turn my tawdry a$$ out on the Lower West Side so’s I can kick back some bling,” and Raj, who is becoming more detestable by the second despite being by far the most appealling of these unspeakable wankers, sitting there in the living room in his suit jacket, dress shirt, and his freakin’ boxers, and Chris (I think), doing dishes, and then, back in the bedroom, Maria and the doe-eyed twit Elizabeth and the scowling, Stepford robotron, Jeri-Ryan-wannabe Jennifer M, and apparently this is an extended debate because now we’re back in the dining room, and the playas now include the stormtrooper Kelly and the conniving Shih-Ann wannabe Ivana, and of course the survivors, including the aforementioned Andy, wander into the suite just as the consensus arrives that he was fired.

There is massive surprise, including revolted facial expressions and the Seven of Nine wannabe choking on her dinner, as Andy wanders into the room.

Andy moons around on the portico, depressed that no one leaped up to hug him, and that everyone is paying attention to their dinner instead of paying attention to him, and he confesses that he is 22 years old (no! say it isn’t so!) and that everyone “drove a bus over” him, which he pretty much deserved for being such a dumbsh!t as to lose the cell phone, and that he’s here to win, which of course means that he’s toast in the non-distant future. It is revealed that he will be the PM tomorrow, and he vows to “show them a side of” him “that they haven’t seen before,” and I sure hope that doesn’t mean that he’s planning to show them the atomic wedgie scars in some sort of ploy to garner sympathy.

And it’s sunrise, which we can tell because the phone’s ringing, so someone, who turns out to be the aforementioned 12-year-old, better go answer it in their underwear. Have you noticed it’s almost never one of the women who answer? I mean, wouldn’t it be a real ratings-grabber if one of the women trotted out to get the phone in her panties, all breathy with tousled JBF hair after the nightly slumber party that must be the womens’ section of the suite?

Oh. Sorry, carried away. Totally my bad. So it’s one of Trump’s people on the phone, telling us that the Donald will call at 8 AM and that we should wait by the TV in the suite. There is footage of everyone getting dressed, and of Trump doing some dirty deal with someone on an airplane, and then He Himself appears on a wall-mounted flat screen in what appears to be an auxiliary dining area. He takes great care to tell us that He is on his airplane and that He is headed for Ecuador to grope Miss Universe contestants. He also tells us that last year’s most successful suckup, Bill Rancid, is going to meet him there to enjoy some of the endless succession of blow jobs he receives as the benefit of his towering victory in the show’s premiere season.

Mister Trump tells us that Jennifer is exempt from firing, since he has come to actually fear what she and her Borg implants will do to him when he cans her (I have come to believe that there is virtually no way in hell that anyone who isn’t Jennifer will win this thing, and that the final two is virtually certain to be her and Kevin, who has a chip on his shoulder almost as big as Andy’s—but I’ve been wrong before, and it is possible that the smug sturmentroopen Kelly, the ordinary New Yorker Chris, the blonde bitchling Wes, or the flamboyant sh!theel Raj will sneak in, depending on the luck of the draw as regards the relative blood concentration of Trump’s meds in future boardrooms).

We’re going back to the Deutch agency, and the wonderfully entertaining Donnie Deutch, who will judge their efforts at creating an ad campaign. Everyone is pleased. Andy is exspecially pleased, for some reason. I think it’s because he knows he’s going to get lucky and somehow squeak out alive at the end of this episode.